


An Extraordinary Gentleman

by storyranger



Series: A Tale Of Two Cruiserweights [1]
Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Adrian's a bit of an ass, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Protect Jack Gallagher 2k17, heel turn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 07:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12185214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyranger/pseuds/storyranger
Summary: Jack’s sick of being seen as a joke. Brian Kendrick is wearing on his last nerve. Neville, of all people, has some ideas to help.





	An Extraordinary Gentleman

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to and including the September 19, 2017 episode of 205Live and the No Mercy 2017 PPV. Begins after the August 1, 2017 episode. I’m only 50% British, so please only expect 50% stylistic accuracy.

Neville’s not in the habit of paying attention to other cruiserweights. He’s made no secret of his contempt for everyone on the roster, and Jack Gallagher’s antiquated manners and posh accent have drawn his particular ire of late. So it seems fitting, in a sick sort of way, that the first person Jack sees after his disqualification tonight is Neville, brandishing his title with a wolfish grin.

“Come to gloat, have you?” Jack surprises himself with the amount of vitriol in his tone. “Week after week that nutter goes out and smears me, takes advantage of my patience and my scruples. And here I had a chance to teach him a lesson. So I took it.”

“Ay, Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes has his limits, does he?”

“I’m many things, Adrian, but I am _not_ a clown.”

No one’s called him by his first name in a very long time. Neville’s not sure what comes over him, but suddenly he feels a tremendous urge to help.

“Lose the three piece suit, Jacky-boy. It hampers your movement too much. You’ll still look like a pretentious prick in dress pants and a button-down. And for fuck’s sake, man, stop giving everyone a fair chance to get the jump on you.” It still comes off mean and condescending. _Good._ Neville hasn’t completely lost control of his mouth, then.

Jack’s eyes narrow. “Pardon me. I must have missed the part where I asked for career advice.”

“You could do worse than taking advice from your King.”

“You waltz around proclaiming yourself royalty, and yet _I’m_ the joke.”

“Life’s not fair, Jacky-boy.”

Jack allows himself a single ungentlemanly eyeroll as Neville breezes past.

 

***

 

Neville never watches other people’s matches unless he’s scouting, but he tells himself he’s watching Gallagher’s no-disqualifications match against Kendrick so he can gloat later. Instead, he finds that Jack has in fact _taken_ his advice and, suddenly, Neville’s invested in the outcome. When Jack’s head splits open, it takes every fiber of his being not to cry out.

_Can’t have the rest of the roster thinking their King’s gone soft._

 

***

 

Fate, it would seem, loves a reversal. Neville should have seen that low blow coming; hell, he practically gave Enzo the idea. Now, hunched over a bag of ice in the locker room no one is brave enough to try and share with him, he almost laughs aloud when Gallagher ducks into the room, looking furtively behind him and closing the door with an audible sigh of relief.

“What have you done, Jacky-boy?” Neville croaks, and almost enjoys the way Jack starts at the sound.

Jack takes a second to compose himself. “I seem to have angered more of the roster then I first thought.”

“Really put your foot in it this time, haven’t you?”

“As I recall, this is exactly what you told me to do.”

“I didn’t intend for you to align yourself with that loon!”

“What _did_ you intend, then?” Jack snaps.

 _For you to join **me** , _Neville thinks, and recoils at the thought _._ Instead he grunts in frustration; this is normally where he would have stormed away haughtily, but his current situation doesn’t lend itself to such outbursts. Jack just keeps talking like he hasn’t heard him.

“It’s not permanent, you know. This alliance. When the time is right, I’ll tell him in no uncertain terms to piss off.”

A strange relief floods through Neville as he asks, “Will you be using that trusty umbrella, or will the patented Gallagher headbutt suffice?”

“You mock me still?” Jack’s face darkens. Ordinarily, Neville reflects, that would be the desired reaction. Today, though, Neville is suddenly desperate to stop it.

“Quite the opposite. I eagerly await the day you put Brian Kendrick in his place.”

“Oh.” Jack doesn’t seem quite sure how to process a compliment from the King of the Cruiseweights.

“Almost as much as I look forward to crushing that upstart wanker Enzo Amore beneath my boots.”

“You may not be the only one looking forward to that.” Jack fiddles with his mustache as the silence stretches out between them, punctuated by Neville shifting the bag of ice against his crotch. As if sensing the room’s tension and caving to the pressure, the thin plastic suddenly splits, drenching Neville in ice water.

“Feckin’ hell,” Neville blurts, temporarily forgetting the presence of Gallagher in his haste to remove the now-freezing trunks. He remembers himself before he sheds his pants, spotting the deep flush creeping across Jack’s ghostly pale cheeks.

“Here,” Jack mumbles, handing over a towel, pointedly not looking below the beltline. Neville fumbles as he takes it, managing to brush his hand against the other man’s.

“Thanks,” Neville stammers out. There’s a burning sensation in his ears and he reckons his face is as red as Jack’s. Jack turns away and he takes this as his cue to shuck the freezing underwear and wind the towel around his waist. Somehow he still feels naked.

“Is that your bag?” Jack asks, pointing to Neville’s duffel. Neville nods and Jack rifles through it for a quick second, coming up with a pair of trackies, a pullover, and a beanie. “You must be freezing,” he continues, handing over the clothes and pointedly turning his back.

This would be a perfect time for Neville to be bitingly sarcastic, or to tell him to sod off, or to do any number of things besides what he actually does, which is croak out a second “thank you” and gingerly pull on the deliciously warm clothes. The fog of cold lifted from his brain, he recovers himself enough to ask, “Coast clear yet, Jacky-boy?”

_“Stop calling me boy.”_

“Bothers you, laddie?”

Something in Gallagher snaps, and Neville finds himself slammed up against a bank of lockers, Jack’s face inches from his own.

“What do I have to do, Adrian? What does it take, to earn your respect?”

A strangled “Um” is all Neville can manage. That warm feeling from weeks ago is back, triggered by the sound of his first name in Jack’s mouth. And Jack’s _still talking_.

“Because yours is the only opinion I value, you _absolute twat_.”

Neville’s become so distracted trying to process this information that his mouth is able to bypass his brain entirely.

“If this is your idea of flirting, Gallagher, you may need to work on your pitch.”

Jack slowly blinks at him, once, twice, three times. Then he’s gone so quickly Neville almost wonders if the wiry ginger was ever there at all.

 

***

 

He’d gotten cocky.

He’d let his guard down.

_He’d lost._

Neville’s moving on autopilot as he stumbles backstage, accepting ice from a trainer and barely making it to his dressing room before he collapses in a heap on the floor. The kick was definitely harder this time, though the adrenaline from the match had masked it till now. He lies flat on his back, eyes closed, desperately trying not to vomit.

He can’t even be bothered to look up when he hears the door creak open, figuring whomever it is will either figure out they have the wrong room, or put him out of his misery. When they don’t leave after a few minutes, curiosity gets the better of him and he forces one eye open to check who it is.

_Gallagher._

“Now who’s come to gloat?” Neville spits. It comes out sulkier then he’s entirely comfortable with.

Jack looks at him for a long moment, then shuts the door softly. He leaves Neville’s line of sight for a second, only to return holding a stack of towels. He kneels and gently places the towels under Neville’s head, then lies down next to him, crossing his ankles and folding his arms comfortably under his own head.

“I’m not your King anymore. There was no need for that.”

“If you’re not the king, then Enzo Amore is. And I can’t stomach that, Adrian.”

“It’s not a question of what you can stomach. It’s a question of who has the crown.”

“Well then,” Jack suggests, his grin audible, “if you can’t win your rematch, we’ll just have to burn _205Live_ to the ground.”

Later, Neville will swear it was the adrenaline comedown that convinced him his next words were a great idea.

“Flattery _and_ arson. I see you’ve worked on your pitch.”

Jack bolts up onto his elbows, searching Neville’s face with a mix of shock and hope on his face. Neville can’t help himself; a small grin reaches his lips.

Jack notices and swallows. “I told you. Yours is the opinion I value.”

Neville’s breath catches in his throat.

“You were robbed tonight, Adrian. It was no bloody way for a king to lose their throne.”

“That’s twice you’ve called me that, you realise?” Neville croaks.

“King?”

“Adrian.”

“It’s your _name_ ,” Jack points out, a touch confused.

“No one’s called me that since I arrived on this godforsaken show.”

“It suits you better than just Neville.” Jack swallows again, suddenly bashful. “You know, even without the title, you’re still the better athlete. The better fighter. I say that counts for something.”

Neville raises an eyebrow. “I’d say you’re still hitting on me, Jack.”

“I think that’s open to interpretation-” Jack begins, but he stops midsentence as Neville reaches over and places a hand on his.

“It’s okay. I find it… strangely _charming_.”

“Would you mean ‘quaint’ or ‘arousing’?”

Neville lets out a harsh bark of laughter. “I’m not sure I’ll be finding anything arousing for at least a week.”

“Are you quite sure about that?” Jack asks, shifting so he’s right in Neville’s space.

“I’m not sure of anything anymore.” Neville’s voice is barely a whisper. “If you tell anyone about this,” he warns, “I’ll have your guts for garters.”

Jack nods, his entire body tensing.

“Care to kiss your King, Jack Gallagher?”

“ _Gladly_.”

And kiss him Jack does. Slow and sweet and insufferably gentle. Nevertheless, Neville’s still breathless by the time Jack pulls away. Jack’s grinning now, brash and shameless, and Neville has to admit this confident side of Jack is incredibly attractive.

“I heard through the grapevine you don’t have a roommate this leg of the tour.”

Neville closes his eyes, letting out a low groan. “As much as I’d prefer _not_ to be lying on this grimy floor right now, vomiting all over you might spoil the mood.”

Jack brushes a stray chunk of hair off Neville’s face and lies back down, nudging Neville over slightly so they can share the makeshift pillow.

“Whatever you need, Adrian,” Jack whispers, tangling their fingers together. Neville shivers, so Jack rolls closer and wraps his other arm around him for warmth.

Despite the loss, despite the waves of pain and the dirty floor that smells vaguely of feet, he’s somehow happy.

 

Neville’s not in the habit of paying attention to other cruiserweights.

But _Adrian_? Well.

Adrian can make an exception for such an extraordinary gentleman.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not crying over Neville’s title loss you’re crying.


End file.
